Posts Tagged ‘grief’

About a year ago, I finally painted a long-bare canvas. I inscribed on it a poem I’d written. This art piece was in memory of our heaven-dwelling babies. I’ve had this canvas in my office at school all year. It’s precariously balanced on an electrical outlet, waiting to be more securely attached to the wall.

Today, that canvas fell, not for the first time, but this time, it met the corner of my desk, resulting in a gash. I was meeting with a student at the time. At first I was bewildered, then angry, then deaf to all that Beka was saying. And then I started crying. I don’t think poor Beka quite knew what to do. I wanted to show my broken canvas to Mari Ellen—she’d appreciated this piece of memorial lament—but she wasn’t there to sorrow with me.

That canvas is the most personally significant memorial I have of my kids. Seeing it abruptly torn, jerked to the surface my hibernating sorrow. For the rest of the day, I was exhausted and slow-moving. It’s funny how such a small thing can summon the heavy, familiar weight of grief. I didn’t expect this small incident to cause such a strong reaction.

Tomorrow, I’ll be participating in the Senior Transition Seminar. It’s a time for Seniors to process saying goodbye to BFA and transitioning to college life. I’ll be talking to the girls about relationships in college. Tonight, while thinking over what to say, my thoughts turned to all of the girls who I’ll be interacting with.

I like these 30 girls. A lot.

I have one month left with them. One more month to enjoy their smiles. One more month to hear their thoughts. One more month to laugh until I cry at their quirky humor. One more month to hug them. One more month share their lives while I can touch and see and smell and hold them. And then they’ll be gone. Off to places all across the world. I may never see them again. And that makes me so very sad. I don’t want BFA sans them.

I was thinking, just before writing this post, about that torn canvas and how sad it made me, how it affected my day. And I rather surprised myself by saying, “Thank you God that I’m sad about that canvas.” I had to consider why I was thankful.

Thank you, God, that I loved, and love, my children. Thank you, God, that I remember them through art. Thank you that these things are meaningful to me because these people are meaningful to me. Thank you that my life is filled with people I love. Thank you, God, that I care about these senior girls, who will soon be moving on to bigger and better things. Thank you that I will miss them. Thank you, God, that my hurt comes from deep love. Thank you for filling my life with things so good, people so good, that I miss them when they’re gone.

This morning I found myself dazed while attending an all-staff meeting. I sat. I stared. I payed no attention to the conversations going on around me. At one point, I thought how familiar this felt. I felt this way all of last year.

A little over a week ago, a friend and BFA colleague passed away unexpectedly. Mari Ellen Reeser had worked at BFA for over 20 years. Most recently, she was BFA’s sole counselor.

Mari Ellen was my friend. We lived in her house last year, and I was terrified of her. That year was incredibly difficult, and I felt so very guilty about the state of our home. It wasn’t clean, and we’d managed to break more things in those few months than I had in my entire life. But Mari Ellen was gracious. She wrote in an email, “PEOPLE are always more important than THINGS!! It’s the invisible things (like souls!) which are eternal. The visible is passing away!!”

When Israel and I finally met Mari Ellen in a local cafe, I was shocked by how very loud she was and by how often she laughed—loudly.

Over the past year, Mari Ellen has been my safe place, my sanity. I’ve had a lot of conversations with girls about things I was required to report. I hate reporting. It feels like a betrayal. But I can’t think of a better person to report to than Mari Ellen. She was ever gracious. She was always loving. She was always patient. She did was what necessary, and she did what was best.

Most of the “reported” girls didn’t like Mari Ellen. They felt threatened by her. She was the bad guy. Apart from their one or two required meetings with Mari Ellen, they usually chose to see me exclusively. But Mari Ellen didn’t seem to mind. She was never jealous, or petty, or unkind. She wanted to work through the avenues that God was using, whether that was me, her, or someone else.

Mari Ellen was the only person I could talk with openly about my girls. With her, I didn’t have to disguise identities, talk around an issue, or be vague. I could express my confusion, and hurt, and heartache about the pain and suffering these girls experienced. She always offered advice on how to proceed. She always encouraged me in the ways that God was working in and through me. She always prayed for me and for our students.

I’ve only really felt the loss of Mari Ellen once so far. It stills seems unreal that she’s not here. I expect that it will begin to seem very real tomorrow, while attending her memorial service. And the next day, when I meet with the students she cared for. And in a few weeks, when someone tells me something I’m required to report.

I am sad that Mari Ellen is no longer here. I am sad that she’s no longer here to care for our students. I’m sad that she’s left a hole in so many of my friends’ lives. I’m sad that she’s no longer just a few steps away, when it seems like all of my questions have meshed into one great knot that I’d like her to help untie.

But I’m not sad for her. She is dancing with the Holy Trinity now (an idea she once told me passionately about). She is holding my Blueberry and Beatrice until I can. She knows the complete healing and wholeness of eternity. As she referenced all those months ago, her visibleness has passed away, but her soul is eternal.

I wrote this poem over Christmas Break. Now seems like a good time to share it. Unfortunately, I couldn’t copy the formatting without hours of work, so you’ll have to read it as is.

A Boxing Day Reflection
By Dani Jernigan

There are moments
and days
and years
that are shot through
with such exquisite sadness
that they must be strings to somewhere else.

They must be threads
that tie the shattered and murky
to the solid and clear,
where there are answers to the
why? and
how long? and
how come?

Where every heartache
and teardrop
and bloody heart-spasm
is perfectly reflected as a glorious groan
that sings forth
honor
glory
redemption
love.

For when we are huddled
in masses on the ground,
alone and aching and raw,
there must be a holy reflection on the other side,
that shows someone beside us,
whispering words of comfort,
weeping tears of heartache,
giving embraces that don’t let go
until we awake
to see the arms that have been holding us
all along.

Surely,
each empty seat
twinkling light
hug from father to daughter
and belly swollen with promise
that makes my brittle heart creak
connects me to a pool
of longing
and hope
and expectation
that is millennia old
where ancient souls come
to remember their sadness
and rejoice
at their joy realized.

Surely,
each empty womb
branded cheek
bruised body
and whimpering child
flies to a bottomless pool of compassion
that forever hides in our Father’s heart,
where he comes
to remember his children
and their great cares,
where he weeps tears of
compassion
brokenness
love
that mingle with our own
to form a sadness so rich
it can only be holy
and precious
and meant for a place
where we are loved
and never alone
and always wanted.

Several of you have asked how the High School Retreat went. Unfortunately, we can only tell you what we’ve heard from others, because we didn’t go.

We had another miscarriage.

I don’t really know what to say….

We were seven weeks pregnant. I’d known I was pregnant pretty much since conception. I’d felt better about this pregnancy because I’d had morning sickness. I’d even looked at names, which I didn’t do last time. The one that kept running through my head was Beatrice, which means “bringer of joy.”

We’d just been to the doctor that Wednesday. We were hoping to see the heartbeat, but didn’t. She said we could have simply been a few days too early. That afternoon I started cramping and spotting. Israel’s parents also flew in that afternoon to lead worship at the retreat.

By Thursday morning, I was bleeding and cramping badly. I laid in bed for about an hour trying to decide whether to go to the retreat or stay home. I finally decided that, even if I did go, I’d be so distracted that I wouldn’t do any good. Israel’s parents spent the day with us and went to the retreat location in Switzerland on Friday.

From what I’ve heard, retreat was amazing. Students were challenged, ministered to, and encouraged. Fortunately, the co-leader of my small group was able to attend and be with our girls. Our small group grew in vulnerability and closeness, which I’m so excited about. My small group girls have just blossomed in the past few months. It’s amazing. I hate that I didn’t get to go to retreat. What awful timing.

Israel and I spent the weekend alone. It was different this time. I didn’t cry much; last time I couldn’t stop crying.

I value being present in whatever I’m experiencing—joy, grief, disappointment. I was present during our last miscarriage, but I’m not now. I think my lack of grief is a combination of our cautious attitudes toward the pregnancy, the circumstances of the weekend, and my fear of reliving last semester.

Last semester was probably the hardest of our lives. Not only did we experience a heartbreaking miscarriage, but I felt the repercussions of it for quite a while (which is why you’ve heard so little from me over the past few months). December was an awful month for me. I was depressed. Some days I didn’t think I could get out of bed. Some days I couldn’t stop crying. Israel didn’t know what to do. I just kept praying, “Jesus help me,” and trusting that he would bring me through my darkness.

I think that’s partly why I’m afraid to grieve, because I’m afraid of going back to that dark place. I know Israel is.

So, here we are, in the midst of another loss—confused, frustrated, numb, afraid.

I’m wondering if, in the future, I’ll be able to let myself fall in love with a child I might never meet. I’m confused about whether I’m a mother if my children never took a breath. I’m confused about what it means that, as everyone says, there must have been something seriously wrong with our babies for my body to end the pregnancies. I’m confused about what caused this—God, Satan, our broken world?

I don’t know how to grieve without being angry, or pointing a finger at God. And I don’t want to be angry, because that’s part of what he taught me last time—that he is good, that he is loving, that he loves my children. How do I grieve without accusing him, or doubting his wisdom, or hating him for a time?

We went to the doctor again a few days ago. She did an ultrasound and said that a small amount of tissue remains in my uterus. She took some blood in order to monitor my hormone levels. If my hormone levels haven’t gone down by next week, I’ll need to have surgery. Please pray that my body will take care of everything; I really don’t want to have surgery again.

“Gladden the soul of your servant, for to you, O Lord, do I lift up my soul.” Psalm 86:4

It’s beautiful. I’ve never lived in a cleaner place. Every building has delightful flowers and gardens. I believe that over 25% of Germany is set aside as green space.

It’s simple. Every few days I walk three minutes to the grocery store to buy a couple (reusable) bags of groceries. We walk to school almost every day. I can buy a big bottle of mineral water for 19 cents. Doing official things (like bank transfers, car registrations, and even surgery) is so much less complicated than it is in the States.

It’s nostalgic. Every time I drive past a swath of forest, I’m reminded of looking at the same forest as a child. Today, I saw a booth of puppets and stared for several minutes while I remembered the puppets of my childhood. Last week, I played on a fantastic wood and rope play ground. It was so much more fun and imaginative than the plastic and metal contraptions that fill the States.

I’m not saying that I don’t love America. I’m just really glad to be living in Germany, even when I’m frustrated or scared or uncertain. This is most certainly where we are supposed to be.

Today was a wonderful affirmation of how much I love living in here.

Holzen is a town just a few kilometers from Kandern. This weekend was their annual craft market. We spent a few hours there today with our friend Alyssa, an art teacher at Black Forest Academy. We wandered among dozens of booths filled with pottery, artwork, handmade clothes, soap, and beautiful floral arrangements.

We also ate lots of yummy food, which is always my favorite part. As a late lunch, we enjoyed Flammkuchen, a thin-crusted onion and bacon pizza, which is baked in a wood-burning oven. We tried some pumpkin soup and shared a glass of fresh apple juice. And when I say fresh what I mean is that I took a drink and thought I was biting into an apple. Just outside the food stand was a long wagon filled with fresh apples. The apples were put into a press sort of thing, which trickled beautiful, cloudy juice into a trough. The Juice People (I can’t think of anything else to call them) would walk over to the trough, dip in a big pitcher, and then walk back to the table to fill individual glasses. I mean really, how wonderful is that? On our way out, we bought a loaf of bread (which I caught unintended, yummy whiffs of all the way home), three slices of pie, and a gorgeous bouquet of flowers.

What a fabulous way to spend a Saturday. Enjoy the photos of our lovely Germany.

As far as the miscarriage goes, we’ve both been learning a lot. God’s doing a much work in us. He’s bringing good from our pain. He’s teaching me to trust him and teaching me to believe his love for me. I want to share in more detail, but I haven’t yet determined how to express what’s happening in my heart. There have been some really wonderful days and some really awful ones. I know that God is working through both. Last week, Israel’s dad wrote this song for us regarding the miscarriage. I may have listened to it a hundred times already. It helps my heart.

A Gasthaus of Holzen

Oh to be a child in Germany.

DSC_6376

Walking into the market. The big building in the back is a girl's dorm.

This post is my heart. It is raw. It is bloody. It is desolate. But I want you to see it anyway, because this is real. We are going through a deep hurt. We are walking in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. I’ve never understood what that meant, but I do now, because I can see death looming up next to me.

I’m sharing this with you because you are important to us. I want you to know what is going on in my heart. I want you to share in our sorrow, so that you can one day rejoice with us too. I feel like I should ask something of you when you read this, but I don’t know what that would be. I’ve found great healing in being honest and vulnerable, perhaps this is a part of my healing, or yours.

Our History

Israel and I have wanted a baby for years. About a year and a half after we were married, we thought we were pregnant, or rather, everyone in my family thought we were pregnant. It wasn’t in our plan to get pregnant at the time, we were going to move to Seattle and go to grad school. But, the potential of being pregnant changed our plans. Why not start trying? Why not stay close to our families? Why not start early and be young grandparents?

On January 1, 2008, I took my last birth control pill. And we waited. And we waited. And we waited. The first year was difficult. Birth control had messed with my body quite a bit. We’d go for a month or two thinking we could be pregnant, but there was never a positive test. Once, I went four months without having a period. Eventually, with the help of some medicine, things went back to normal, but by that time, I had withdrawn. I’d hidden the part of me that cared whether we got pregnant, because I couldn’t hope for it anymore. And our families stopped asking, because the answer was always no.

Then we found out about Black Forest Academy, and suddenly it all made sense. If our plans had worked out, we would never be able to move to Germany quickly. If we’d had a baby and a house and had been in grad school, there was no way we’d be able to move so easily. At that point, my desire changed. I didn’t want to be pregnant yet; I wanted to be able to fully invest in BFA for a while. So, we went to Germany on July 16th.

The Blueberry

On Sunday, August 29th, I took a pregnancy test. It was positive. According to the way they count pregnancy, my first day of pregnancy was two days before we left, July 14th. We couldn’t believe it. How in the world could this be possible? We’d just finished the first week of school!

Before I took the test, I was angry that I might be pregnant. God knew that I didn’t want this now! He knew that I wouldn’t be able to fully invest while taking care of a baby! But by Monday afternoon, my heart was already gone, given to the tiny one growing inside me. We called it the Blueberry, because that’s how big it was when we found out. The Blueberry was due on April 20th, 2011. It was clear that this was God’s perfect timing. He wanted us in Germany and he wanted us to have a baby now.

A Sudden Goodbye

On Friday, September 10th, I found blood. I was at school at the time. I sat in my office for two hours, wrapped in blanket, quickly wiping my tears away in case someone walked in. Eventually, my dear friend did come in, and I felt brave enough to walk home with her. I was just entering my ninth week.

The weekend was horribly confusing. We were told by a doctor who is on staff at BFA that there was a 50/50 chance of miscarrying. I cramped and spotted on and off from Friday morning until Sunday evening. I couldn’t go to a doctor for an ultrasound because they were closed until Tuesday. On Monday, I was sure I was miscarrying. On Tuesday, the doctor confirmed it. There on the screen was the little Blueberry, but no heartbeat. On Wednesday morning, we went to the hospital for a D&C.

In the Valley

I don’t know that I’ve ever cried so much in one week. I know that I’ve never wept like I did on Friday evening, when I found more blood. After finding it, I sat down next to Israel and began to sob—deep, uncontrollable sobs. Israel had never stopped wanting a baby. He was excited from the moment that little purple line showed up, and I felt like I was taking that from him. I felt guilty and ashamed and embarrassed.

I don’t really know how to process this. I don’t know what the point of this is, or what God is doing.

I was already learning so much! In June, God started working on the most wounded places of my heart, places that I thought he’d already healed, but that were still bleeding. So he’s been teaching me that he is good, that he is my loving Father, that he cares about me, that he knows me, that he loves me. I know all of these things about God, but I don’t believe them. What I believe is that God only does things in my life so that he will get glory and so that I will learn the lessons that I fail to teach myself. I think he does these things with no real regard or care for me. I believe that God doesn’t really know me. I believe that God doesn’t really love me, or comfort me, or sit with me when I cry. But he’s been gently removing the layers of protection I’ve build around my wounds, so that he can heal them. I knew that the Blueberry was part of that healing.

And then the Blueberry left, and I found myself bewildered. I don’t understand what this means about who God is. I don’t know how to believe that God is loving in this. I don’t know how to believe that he cares about me or the Blueberry. Why would he let us get pregnant immediately after getting to Germany and then take it away only two weeks after we found out? We told our families we were pregnant on Sunday, September 5th; we told them about the miscarriage only one week later. What is the purpose in that? It just seems like cruelty.

But I’m trying to hold on to what I hope is true. God is love. God is good. God cares for me. He cares for the Blueberry. He is holding the Blueberry while we cannot. He did not cause this, but will bring good from it. He loves me in this, and holds me while I cry. He hurts when I hurt.

This has brought me to the edge of myself. I wrote this in an email to a friend, “Maybe that’s why he did it now, because he knew this would bring me to the brink of myself, where I have nothing left and am totally shattered. I feel so needy; I don’t like it. I have nothing.”

I am heartbroken. I am confused. I am shattered. I am empty. I don’t know if I’m angry, perhaps I feel forsaken. But I’m believing that God is present and is big enough to hold this weight of sorrow. I’m clinging to the hope that He will save me from these waters, which have come up to my neck. And when he does, I will let him hold me, and I will rest in him, and I will call him my Papa. Because he loves me even more than I loved the Blueberry, who I had yet to even meet.

The day before my surgery, I asked God to give me a sunrise. God gives thunder to one of my friends as a sign of his love for her. I’ve been trying to believe that He would do that for me to. So I asked him for a sunrise, because I’ve always loved them. I stared at the sky the whole way to the hospital; it was a normal sky—blue with white clouds. I had just decided that he wouldn’t give me one, but we rounded a corner, and there it was. Pink marble resting on the hills of the Black Forest.

That morning, I wrote Psalm 32:7 on a note card and kept it in my pocket. “You are a hiding place for me; you preserve me from trouble; you surround me with shouts of deliverance.” Though I may not be able to hear it yet, he is shouting deliverance around me. He is roaring at the darkness and scattering it. Soon I will be able to hear my Papa coming for me.

I wrote this last Thursday, the morning after my surgery, and I wrote from the depth of my pain and sorrow. I’m not in this place anymore. God’s begun to redeem this. He’s shown me what he’s doing through it. I hope to post about these new things in a few days.

Hopefully you know by now (unless you’ve just stumbled across our blog) that we are planning to work with missionary kids at Black Forest Academy. As part of our preparation, I’ve been reading (rather slowly) Third Culture Kids by David Pollock and Ruth Van Reken. Missionary kids are third culture kids (TCKs), which means they’ve spent a significant period of their formative years outside their passport countries. I’ve also been going to counseling for the past few months. One of the things that keeps coming up, in the book and counseling, is grief.

I moved a lot growing up. I believe I moved 12 times in my first 14 years of life. I don’t know if I technically qualify as a TCK, but I do relate to some of the aspects of TCK life. One thing I’d never realized is that there is a grieving process to moving. Let me tell you, that was an eye-opening chapter. According to the book, the transition cycle for moving is Involvement, Leaving, Transition, Entering and Reinvolvment. Okay, in and of itself, that doesn’t really mean much. The wow moment for me was reading about the Leaving stage, which isn’t talking about getting on a plane and heading to your new home, although that’s part of it, but about emotionally removing yourself from your home. You begin to loosen emotional ties, back out of responsibilities and refrain from taking new ones, and stop making new friends.

So, for the first time, I’m aware of this process. We’re in this strange sort of limbo. We’re preparing to move to another country to start a whole new life. We’ve basically sold all of our possessions, we’ve moved in with friends, we’ve given our cat away, we’ve quit our jobs, but we’re still here. And, instead of pulling away from our relationships, we’re strengthening them and making new ones, because everyone here is vital to our success at BFA. And I don’t mean financially, although we do need money, but, emotionally and spiritually. The people here will, in many way, sustain us as we serve in Germany. Instead of distancing ourselves from friends, family and church, we’re trying to become even more connected to our lives here, so that we have an anchor of people from which we can launch ourselves into BFA.

And it’s weird.

People ask me how things are going and how we’re doing, and I don’t really know what to tell them. We’ve sold all of our stuff, all of our wedding gifts. We never took any photos of our apartment, the only home we’ve know since we’ve been married. We’re living with someone else. We gave our cat away, and I bawled and I want her back. We want to be in Germany, but we’re not. We want to get to know our friends better and to love them better, but then it will hurt that much more when we have to leave.

So I think I’m experiencing grief. I’m glad to know that is what’s happening, and that it’s normal, and that it will keep happening. But it’s strange.

I’ve been thinking about home, and what that means. TCKs often don’t know where home is. I can identify with that right now, because, apparently, home isn’t a place. It’s not your things. Or where you live. Or comfort food.

What I’m trying to get at is that this whole missionary thing can be hard at times, and we haven’t even left yet. We’re in process. We’re learning and changing and grieving. I’m grieving the apartment (that I never liked), and our possessions (that I wasn’t very attached to) and our cat (whom I loved). I guess the fact that I even care about leaving our apartment shows that this really is a transition. And maybe it really is a sacrifice. It didn’t seem like much of a sacrifice before it happened, and even now, it doesn’t seem like much of one. And I’m actually glad to do it, because I’m so excited about what God has for us at BFA. But I guess it is a sacrifice to leave all of your things and what you’ve known, for something that has no guarantees.

I guess I wanted to let you all know how we, or at least I, am doing. In one sentence, I think this whole transition period is strange. That’s really the best word I can think of to describe it.